


To Know You

by LittleGreenPlasticSoldier



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Character Death, F/M, Gags, Gross, Kidnapping, Non-Consensual Kissing, Not in a long term sort of way but there are characteristics of it, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Rape/Non-con Elements, Running, Running Away, Shapeshifter, Shapeshifter Dean, tied-up
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-30
Updated: 2017-09-14
Packaged: 2018-12-21 15:30:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 11,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11947188
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier/pseuds/LittleGreenPlasticSoldier
Summary: A shapeshifter job goes sideways and you're on your own.





	1. Chapter 1

It’s a sad state of affairs when comfort feels so unusual.  Not only was it a deep sleep, on a reasonably comfortable bed, but you feel _rested_.  Two seconds later you think to open your eyes and look, tense your body, and yes.  You’ve been fucking caught.

Lifting your head reminds you of the bump and you wince, trying to isolate the pain in your skull.  Your ankles are tight and tied to the frame and when you look up your wrists are bound above your head, the rails and rope-tails well out of reach.  Pretty sad that that’s so familiar too.

It’s a nondescript room, in a brick building you think, modern and clean.  The bed’s in the middle of the room, and from the light under the door beyond your feet, to the right, it’s deep into the day. The door creaks open and before you even see his face you’re hissing “Dean!  Dean, I just woke up-”

All at once the clues present themselves and you know he’s not Dean.  He’s walking too slowly, not enough slack in those hips, and he has a face of anticipation that’s got nothing to do with escape.  It’s the fucking shifter.

“Hi Y/N.” He sits on the bed beside you and you tighten your muscles to keep from rolling towards him.  “How you feeling?”

It’s a bitter thing to see someone you respect and admire so much mocked up in a shit-for-brains sociopath. You can see the difference though, an identical twin that’s completely unrelated. Somehow it’s more unnatural than any monster you’ve ever met, like furniture coming to life.

You’re thinking about your approach - fight or freeze? Acid or honey?  You don’t know enough about this guy to know what he wants or what angle he’s going to work.  You’d only just started the hunt a few days ago.

He reaches across you, meaning to brush some hair, and you flinch, glare darkly for him to back off.  He slows but doesn’t retreat, brushing your locks aside with thick digits he’s not used to. He tries again, using fingertips, tucking ends, and dragging his thumb across your cheek.  It’s Dean-like. He’s learning.

“So,” he speaks carefully, “I need your help.  Sweetheart.”  He tries on a smile, crinkled and direct.  

You clench your jaw. Dean never calls you sweetheart.

“You’re a hunter,” he goes on.  “You save people.  And I need saving.”

_You’re not people._

You look over him as he talks, in Dean’s clothes, with Dean’s stubble and hair.  He’s moving those limbs like he’s entitled to wield them and shifts around further so he can look down the line of your form.  He moves like he’s in water, holding back excitement and hope.

You ask quickly, “Are Sam and Dean okay?” No eye contact.

“Yes,” he nods.  “Yeah, they didn’t even see you leave.”

“I didn’t _leave_ ,” you spit.  “You _kidnapped_ me.”

“Yeah- okay- well,” he raises a finger, lifts his knee onto the bed while he pouts those pouty stolen lips and bounces his eyebrows around in an amateur effort to trick you with that face.  “I needed to talk to you, okay?  So lemme explain.”

You shake your head a little, a slow disbelieving blink at yet another kidnapper banging on like you’ve agreed to listen.

“So, this.  Me,” he sweeps his hands up and down his imposter of a body. “I don’t wanna do this any more.” Eyebrows raised, he opens his arms as though it’s an amazing leap into humanity.  He glances around - _Look at all my greatness!_

You watch, disgust intact.

“I wanna settle down, you know?  Try being regular.  Stop killing and feeling rattled and lost and- hey, you know, I don’t even remember my own face?” He rests a hand by your waist, leaning over your body.  “I couldn’t go back to it if I tried.  I just can’t picture it.”

“Maybe I could knock you out and see what your body does?” you offer coldly.

“Oh. No, that doesn’t work.”  He isn’t offended.  “But yeah, I think, I really think I want to try being a regular person,” he nods, “suburbia and stuff. But I just don’t think I could do it alone.”

You stare at him, impression unchanged.

He swallows, goes on like you’re okay with things.  “I need, I think, someone who’s got an idea of what I’m going through, you know?  And I could probably approach an expert in my kind, or trick someone, right? But it just felt so… like a _sign_.”  He leans over.  It’s so peculiar to have Dean’s face talking to you like this, watching those green eyes flit all over while he thinks, lashes dancing, how they fall back to you and your features, your hair.  His left hand fiddles with the fabric of your plaid shirt and he centres and re-centres the button panel while he talks.

“And when I saw how you looked at him, at this body,” he gestures, both hands sweeping up and down again, patting his chest as if you need a visual aide.  “The answer was right there.  We can both have what we want.”

“You’re not what I want,” you say darkly.

“But he is.  It’s just, you haven’t made a move yet.  And he hasn’t either, so you guys must be missing _something_.”

You scowl incredulously at the mess he’s making of the facts in that stolen mind.

He shrugs, like _If you say so_ , then looks at you, watches you stare at him, and neither of you speak.  His mind seems to wander, following his eyes as they drift down your neck and to the buttons of your shirt.  He undoes the top one, no intention clear.

“Don’t do that.”  You say it firmly, and wait.

He pauses, gazing into your eyes with the indifference of a broken child and, momentarily, goes back to what he was doing.  Soon he’s shifted the open shirt aside, revealing your waist and bust under a snug singlet top, and looks at all your curves.

“He does love you, I think.  It feels really nice, good, if that helps.” His leans over you again, right hand by your bust, left hand dragging lightly on your ribs. “Female hunters are rare, so strong and hot, but this,” he taps his chest, “all this _history_ , and this jumble of _feelings_ for you, it’s such a great start for us.”

This fucking nut.  Your eyes strain with hate and frustration.  “It doesn’t matter what he wants.  He’s not here.”

“I would love you,” he offers.

“No.   _Thanks_ ,” you grit out.

“You haven’t even tried it.”

“It’s not broccoli.”

He frowns, hurt, and blinks a few times like he’s pulling on patience, reminding himself that this part may take a while.  He puts a hand on your waist, firm and warm, high enough to hold you still by the ribs, and your body ratchets tight, gut muscles recoiling, unable to curl away while he’s over you.

He leans down, gaze fixed on your lips.

“Don’t.”

“No, this will help.”  He moves quickly enough that you can’t pull back and headbutt him, and his mouth lands on yours.  After a second, he moves his lips, then again, and again, like his mind is going back to check the instructions between each one.  He licks at your lip, and kisses again, licks once more and kisses, but you’re not responding.  Your mouth is shut tight, lips firmly closed, though not disappeared, as you wait for this warm ground-meat-smelling imposter to stop groping you with his face.  

He looks like he wants this to work, so earnest and wishful, deep little sounds of pleasure, and his hand squeezing at your side.  You close your eyes so you don’t have to see those freckles and watch him try.  His washing powder smells the same, but his skin, it’s something like bad breath, or serum. Not medicinal, but like hospitals.  And to have him do this to you, so intrusive and intimate- you think back to the few hook-ups you had when the kissing turned out to be terrible, and try convincing yourself that kissing is not that big a deal, steer your mind away from what he might touch next…

After a while he’s stopped acting like he’s enjoying it, and now nudges into you, encouraging in a different way, and getting no joy.

He stops a moment, moves just enough to speak. “You should try it.  It’ll help.”

“I don’t want you to.”

He leans back and snatches at your chin, a bone bruising hold.  “Try it,” he growls, and yanks your jaw down to assault you with whatever technique he’s found in the bank. It doesn’t work though and never could because kissing isn’t just _being kissed_ it’s _kiss **ing**_ , and you’re sure as hell Dean knows how better than this asshole.

You’re doing everything you can to wipe away the sight of Dean angry and grabbing at you like this - _It isn’t him- He would never-_ You can’t even think straight through your bitterness.  The temptation to bite his tongue is strong, but you lock your jaw at the scant half-inch he’s taken, since you’re unsure that making him angrier would be in your best interests. Yet.  He’d just grow it back anyway.

He finishes doing whatever he’s doing, and pulls back, squinting at your revulsion, your stomped down fear, and he works his jaw, cheeks twitching in irritation.

He sits up straight, sooking and thoughtful, apparently giving up.  “Are you hungry?” he asks curtly.

No response.

“Do you need the bathroom?”

You look away, stare at the light fitting.

He gets up and goes to the door.  “Call out if you need anything.”  Then he leaves.

Slowly you release your muscles, stretch your jaw, roll your shoulders around, and pull on the ropes again.  When you’re finally relaxed enough, you squirm yourself around to get a better look at the ropes, but it isn’t promising.  They don’t slide sideways and although you can roll yourself onto your belly, it only makes things tighter, so you keep to your back.

A lot of quiet time passes.

You doze, waking occasionally when you try to move.  You count the scallops on the decorative cornice, remind yourself of lyrics and figure out mondegreens, try to work the case some more and wonder if Dean and Sam will find enough clues to find you.  

You have enough time to lose your faith in rescue and cycle right around again, back to the stone-sure belief that you will see them again, even if it is after you’ve called them from the bunker - “I’m eating Doritos on your bed.  Come at me bro.”  You warm yourself with what might be their first words.

Most of the scenarios, though, involve you fighting your way out.  You hope it won’t take long.

This time you notice the locking sound and store away the image of a slide-bolt for later.  He comes in with a tray of food - noodle soup, an apple, and a glass of orange juice with a bendy straw - and drags a chair to the left of the bed before putting the tray on the seat.  At the head of the bed he keeps his distance and unties the ropes so that your arms can fold down, but he doesn’t release your wrists.  He stands back, watching you watch him, and gestures at the food with his chin.

You sit up and start feeding yourself, ignoring how the hit of fuel triggers your bladder, especially behind your jean’s belt. You hold out while you get down the bulk of the meal.  

“Can I leave the apple for later?”

He doesn’t answer, standing there behind you.

“I need the bathroom,” you say, “kind of urgently.”

He comes to the foot of the bed, swiftly untying your ankles and moves to the side as he pulls out a gun.  As soon as you’re upright he’s walking you out the door, his mean grip on your arm making up for creaking legs, the rope on your wrists trailing behind you.  The corridor is minimal and ends with a door. There’s a high bank of windows on the right, and a simple toilet room on the left near the end.  He pushes you in, expression blank, drops the remaining rope on the floor and closes the door over it.  It locks from the outside.

You get your pants down and sit before you think about what you just saw, where you are, but with nothing but sky there’s not much to gauge except north, based on shadows and reflections, and even that’s fuzzy.  

All finished, you knock on the door; he gathers up the rope from the ground and holds it firmly, with the gun in your side, as he marches you back to the room.  He doesn’t trust you, at all, and throws you onto the bed with such force you almost bounce off, pulls you around to anchor your wrists again. He loops the rope through the low frame and you try to give yourself as much slack as possible.  He’s not tricked though, and yanks your hands into the bars.  This isn’t the time you choose to fight, but he still works fast and rushes to your feet, snatching each of them to be tied down again.  He seems scared, and sad.

He leaves the apple on the chair, and picks up the tray.

“I need the drink.”

He puts it all down, takes a breath and looks at you hesitantly.  He collects the juice and bends the straw, then kneels by the bed so he can hold it by your armpit.  You lean up and sip as hard as you can, finishing the glass in seconds.

Quickly he’s tidied things and back in the doorway.  For a moment he looks like he’ll speak, but doesn’t, and closes the door behind him instead.

You lay there, next to the apple you can’t reach, and stare at the ceiling.  He busies around the apartment and eventually leaves for the evening.  

After 10 minutes grace, you call out and yell, scratching your voice.  There’s no sign of a response and no noise of human life.  He doesn’t return till late.

In the morning the routine is the same.  Tray on the chair, wrists untied, food eaten, rough visit to the bathroom, and a drink with the bendy straw.

He doesn’t leave the apartment but nothing can be heard.  He’s settled down to do something quiet and you’re just about to vibrate yourself to bits with inactivity.  You’ve never spent this long in one spot without a coma to hold you down.  It grates against your nerves, making you skittish and the itch to fight your bonds starts to fray your edges.  You think panic might roll through you, maybe rock right on by, and would that be the end of the world if you sweat yourself into a shuddering mess-? _Shit_.  It’s starting to feel torturous, so you decide to do what you can before it makes you sick.

“ _Blinded_ by the light…  Held up like a loofa with another in the night… _Blinded_ by the light…”  Spite arcs in you, recklessness… This time you sing at full force, terribly, screeching to hit the notes and stinging your voice back to what it was last night.  “BACK IN BLACK, I hit the sack, I’ve been too long, I’m glad to be back, Yes I’m _let loose_ , from the noose, that’s! kept! me! hangin’ about, I been lookin’ at the sky ‘cause it’s gettin’ me high-”

BAM BAM!

He bangs on the wall, one you can’t see, but it only makes you mad.

Right.  Fuck him.  

“ **LAST** NIGHT I **DREAMT** OF SAN DAGO… FEELS LIKE IT WAS YESTERDAY TOO FAR AWAY. **TROP** ICAL THE ISLAND STREAMS **ALL** OF NATURE’S WORLD IT SEEMS THIS IS WHERE I LONG TO BE **LA ISLA BONITA**.  AND THEN THE **SUN** WOULD FADE, THE SUN WOULD **SET SO HIGH** -” You don’t sing so much as hurl the words at the roof, shredding your voice with anger, daring him to do something about it.

A series of bumps come from the other room, some noise from the kitchen, and you’re puffing, directing all your tension at the sounds as they move.

The key in the lock has you trying to sit up and as soon as you see light- “You can’t keep me tied up here all day! I’ll go _fuckin’ insane!-”_

“SHUT UP!”

“Oh me shut up?! I’ve been so goddamn patient!   _UNTIE ME!”_

He slaps you, right across your face, your head still raised at him to yell, and you know Dean can hit but Jesus, your ears are ringing.

For a moment you half want another, just so you can feel something, do something, but when you look back at him again he has a strip of fabric long between his hands, leaning over to push it into your mouth.  You thrash and fight, wringing out your body’s anxiety and frustration. You wince at the knot pulling your hair, your head dropped back to the thin pillow once it’s done.  Then he pulls it tight, his breathing tightening too, as he watches your cheeks cinch and the discomfort grow.  He knots it once more, clueless or uncaring about the hair plucked from your scalp.  

He puffs, something twisting in him at the sight of you pulled long, furious, and restrained.  “I’m sorry,” he says, and leaves again, and this time you hear the front door too.  

With your adrenaline drained and muscles tested, you try to let yourself sleep.

In the early evening, he comes back to the apartment.  

With time to think you’ve decided you need to know his name. You don’t want to talk to him, or use it, truth be told, but manipulation would be your strongest angle.  So you resign yourself to use this, the best tactic you have, and try getting into the mindset of compassion, not pity, sympathy, not resentment, and hope, not loss.  It’s hard to maintain the perspective while you wait, but your defiance is getting you nowhere and the windows to escape are too narrow and risky.

He returns to do the meal and bathroom visit, gag-removal now added to the routine.  It’s curious that he ties you down again before offering the drink.  Maybe he thinks there’s some psych-bending thing to him feeding you, training you to need him.

It does set things up for kinder talk though.  

“What’s your name?” you ask.

He doesn’t trust your reason for asking.  “Daniel.”

“I’m Y/N.”

“I know.”

You don’t mean to come across as willing, or enthusiastic; just kinder, pragmatic even.  “Daniel.  Or, Dan?”

He twitches like a yes.

“That’s only one letter different.”  It feels so daring, so risky to try it, but a little tucked smile and shy eyes that won’t look back… he stares at you for seconds.

He puts the cup back on the tray and pulls a bandana-type cloth from his back pocket.  He rolls it down his thigh, folding, folding, nervous about this for whatever reason.  Upside down you watch him hold it over your mouth, waiting for you to open for him.  With your best _Guess I don’t have a choice_ face, you give him an inch of access, and he quickly takes it, pushing the fabric between your teeth and leading it behind your head.  It’s bulkier than the last gag, and you can’t really breathe around it.  He collects the things and pauses in the doorway.

“I’ll come back in the morning.”

You pull those syllables into your mind and play them like it’s really Dean - _He’ll be here in the morning_ \- and remind yourself that you’re probably safe till then at the least.  You’re determined, now, to Zen the fuck out of this hunt.

Sometime, hours later, while it’s pitch dark and city noises are all horns and bass beats, you hear the front door open and close and you can hear him, that confident cheek, then a woman’s giggle.  He’s brought a woman home.  Jesus Christ you have to listen to this now.

An hour is all it takes.  A few conversations, drinks, a dull patch where they’re figuring things out on the couch, and her sighing it up for him.  He groans, says saucy things, and she laughs, counters with her own cheesy lines.  Fucking, you arch your back and do what you can to get your head under the pillow but it’s not enough.  Now you’re just staring at the ceiling through messy hair.

He makes her come and she seems surprised - he’s surprised too - and you scowl into the darkness that he’s got access to Dean’s repertoire of tricks and tips for this.  He takes her to the counter - “Wait till you get a loada this Darlin’!” - like he’s putting a new car through it’s paces.  Just as advertised.  She yelps and groans, and you breathe deep to keep from yelling through the fabric.  “Oh ____ gorgeous ass! ______ fuck me! Come on ____ Yeah!”  It’s so tedious.

She comes again, you guess, and he does too, which is just terrible to hear because his voice breaks high and he’s chatting straight away “How was that huh? Yeah? Alright yeah?” _You are not qualified for that body!_

She takes forever to leave, him shuffling her out the door, and he takes no time at all to get himself to bed, sans shower.

…

“Y/N!”

You snap your head up and look at the door.  The lock rattles with a key.

“Y/N?!  You in there?”

“Dean?” You can’t keep it in but you don’t call it out either.  You don’t trust.

He bursts in, pauses and smirks.  “You got ready for me huh?” He glances down the hallway and turns back to you.

“You fhucker,” you mumble through the gag.  “Un-kie me awreaggy.”

“Aw, what a waste,” he grins, winking cheekily, and you smile wholly, relief flooding through you and making you hungry, thirsty, cold, needy.  He lunges over and undoes the gag, sitting on the bed and leaning over your body to reach the ropes.  His eyes sparkle in the morning light bouncing around the room. “Looked for you everywhere Y/N.  I’s worried sick,” he says breathlessly, swallowing a shaky smile.

“Well, that was unnecessary,” you say, chest-full with happiness to see your friend again. You hug yourself to rub your shoulders awake.

He glances at your lips, down at your clothes.  “You’re okay?” he thinks to ask.  “Not hurt?”

“No he didn’t want to hurt me, I think, not really.”

He turns to your feet, untying them deftly, and you pounce on the apple, scoffing it down.  “He’s lonely, is all.”

“Huh.  Wanted some company.”

“Yah,” you munch.  “Super creepy but.”

“Can’t blame him for picking you though, sweetheart.”  He stands and you take his offered hand, stepping to the door as you get your new-born-calf legs to work.  He sidles out, glancing up and down the corridor, but there’s not a sound to be heard.  Your room is plain, but the apartment is large and swanky, impersonal even.  Quickly, he edges his way through the living areas, stopping once when he thinks he hears something, then indicates you should head to the front door.  

Down the elevator and dashing outside, you squint at the morning light.  The street is a quiet dead-end, brick lined in an industrial area, or ex-industrial, and he leads you across the road and down a side street, soon running at speed.  You’re running with your friend who saved you, who’s happy to see you again because he was worried sick.  His hand squeezes yours and you keep up.

Around the corner, not a soul to see, and around another, you run some distance without letting up, and then he sees something.  “Shit, in here! In here!”  He pulls up to a doorway, yanking it open for a stairwell and pushes you ahead, upwards.  Two at a time, you’re up a storey in seconds and he hisses “This door!”

You burst in, run along the carpeted landing, barely three steps before you’re at another apartment, opposite an elevator and for a hair’s breadth of a second you hesitate.  

He opens the door, arm around your waist and yanks you in just as your fingers hook onto the doorframe, losing their grip at the last second.

“Goddamn, that was close!”

He doesn’t let you go, pressing his chest to your back and dragging a palm down your arm as you numbly fumble for the door handle.

“No, Y/N, No-no.  Just pretend-” he says, lifting you away from the door and flicking the lock before hugging your forearms down to your belly. “Hey- Y/N, just.  Pretend-”

“Dan?! No!”  You’re talking through your teeth.  “Let me go!”

“Sweetheart, Y/N,” he says, low and steady, trying to get your hair aside with his chin so he can murmur against your ear, pulling you back. “It’s okay! Just pretend!” he pleads secretly, and you start to buck and fight, throwing yourself up and down, your face crumpling into ugly panic as your voice wheezes high and tight.

“No!  You _fuck!”_

“No, it’s okay! S’okay!  I saved you!” he hushes, voice steadier, pleading but firm, much kinder than the force he uses on your body.  He wrenches you sideways and moves you close enough to the wall that you can push against the brick with your hands, writhing around and trying to twist yourself down and away.  “I saved you from the shapeshifter, Y/N, and we can start again.  You and me.”  His hands are tight and strong and your feet can’t get a grip on the floor anymore.  You haven’t broken tears yet but you’re not far off, lips pulled tight in a pained frown of despair at being tricked.

“I searched everywhere for you, sweetheart, and I was worried sick,” he repeats the script.  “And I found you, and Sam gave up and went back to college.”

You thud your forehead on the wall and puff.  His breath bounces off the bricks, back into your skin, that unfamiliar tang to it confirming the nauseating fact that this is not Dean, not your friend, a poor carbon copy of who you so happily, thankfully, jubilantly thought was your saviour.

The rough texture scratches at your forehead, angry fingertips catching in the mortar, and you curse everything about this.  His forearms tuck under your ribs and his pulsing heat, the heat of you both, bleeds into your chest, then the thick legs behind you and the curve of your bodies suddenly discourages any sort of movement at all.  You still and breathe and think… “This is not the way to get me.”

He drags his cheek over your ear, soothing you both, rocking a little.  You feel his chest heave in trepidation at having made an error.  “I gotcha Y/N.  I gotcha,” he hums, “You’ll be okay.”   _  
_

 _Stock footage_ , you think. The bastard’s dug it up from the archives.

It’s so hard to push aside the loathing and think about making him pliable, work your play, but somewhere in your mind there’s a little bean that’s still on the job.  “Poor thing.”  Maybe the tears will help.  Maybe you can relieve yourself and convince him.  “So… so desperate.”  Not a lie.  You could be talking to yourself.  “So desperate for it to be true.”

He pushes his lips into the skin behind your ear.  “Just pretend, Y/N,” he whispers harshly.  “I could be your hero.”

You swallow a sob, fight to keep your mouth closed against it, and hiccup in a moment of self pity, stroking the wall as your tears fall on your wrists.

“S’okay baby.”  He brushes your hair with a hand, dumbly dragging his palm down your head and hugging you close.  “He’s gone, okay?  He’s gone.”

Dan dares to let you move, but vices his hand on your arm, turning you to him so he can brush away your tears and tilt your head back, nothing ever so contradictory as his hushing voice against his vicious hold.  He presses his lips into your cheek, cups the back of your head and pins you to him, bruising your upper arm as he bends it back in an iron grip.  “You’re safe and sound baby,” he promises. “Okay? You can relax and rest.  We’re gonna just blend in and rest.”

You sniffle, your growing anger making it too hard to keep up the misery, and you nod, focusing on your duplicitous plan and letting your hand grab onto the shirts at his waist.  

“You trust me?” Lips and nose push against you, forehead rolling against yours, cheek to cheek, secret and intimate.  “Y’trust me, Y/N.  You could get outta all that.  All the violence and risk.  All the danger.  I could protect you from boring things like paper cuts and drunk coworkers, bad weather.”

You heave your breath in through your nose and nod, unable to lie any more than that.  He leans like he wants you back against the wall but you push into him, nuzzle your temple and sigh as though you hope for what he’s offering, and his hold eases a bit, kisses beginning by your jaw. Those goddamn full lips, those eyelashes brushing, and breath now more normal, these fluttering sensations that tempt you to get lost in dreams of the real thing.

“Stay with me and forget all that,” he lulls.  “Stay with me.  You can have everything you want.”

You nod again, the last of your sad moments passing.  He nudges you and you nudge back, feeling his brow dip in hope.  He cups your jaw, nose by yours again, and pecks at your lips.  You lift your chin a little, only millimeters, but it’s not away, and he decides that’s as good as a yes.

The kiss is deep, desperate and painful.  He presses you into his chest, twisting your shoulder to lever you with it, and pulls on your head, pinching your lips against his teeth as he laps at you again and again.  “I’ll make you so happy, Y/N,” he mumbles, breath pushing over you as he paws at your body.  “You’ll never want anything else.  You’ll forget hunting and all that crap.  I’ll tell you you’re beautiful every day.”  And then he slows it down, releasing your arm and hugging you close, pulling you up into his kiss as though he’s finally gotten the codeword for all Dean’s moves and he _kisses_ you.  It’s passionate, generous, sweet enough to take your breath away and pause your time, and for a throat-clenching moment, it really is all you ever wanted.  His sweat is familiar, and he feels, _feels so much_ like the person you want, wanting you…

“Baby,” Dan says, Dean-deep and thrumming, “I wish you could feel how I feel about you.”

You open your eyes, hanging there from his hold, and watch him look over you.  Every freckle is perfect, just as it should be, each shard of green signature-true.  You lean back more, reach up to feel his hair and the textures of him copied so well. You let his lip catch on your thumb as you stroke his cheek.

You drag your hands down his chest and bunch his shirt, readying to pull him into another kiss and he grins a little, a sideways kick of the lips that’s got the wrong kind of delight.  It’s all you need to trigger your resolve.

A solid jerk with your hands, and you throw your head into his nose. He bounces off you, loud and shocked, and you pull back to kick him as hard as you’ve ever kicked any single thing in your life, right between the legs.

And then you run. 


	2. Chapter 2

All you see is locks, door, hands on door, stairs and feet, door, light, sky, road, brick, walls, pavement, street… You don’t listen to what might be behind you, just keep going until something stops you.  Your shoes catch on the asphalt, fast and tight and you run away, run to hide, run so directly away that you turn left-right-left-right until you start to see cars, people, shops and you keep running, beside the cars, between the cars when the people are too many, and finally think of what could be next.

You run into a bar, some seedy dive that stinks of men drinking on _their_ stool from _their_ glass and don’t want you cleaning up _their_ haven thank you very much.  You grab onto the bar to keep from bouncing off it.  “I need your phone,” you burst.

“You think I just hand over a ph-”

 _“I need a phone!”_ you say to the room.  “Any phone, for one phone call.  Please!”

“What’ll I get for it?”

A guy’s smirking at you, a few people away, feeling bold.  

“Whaddyawant?” You’re nearly yelling, unable to keep the volume down while you breathe so hard.  You’re walking around to him, glaring in a shaken way that should warn him but then you don’t really present as a huge threat.

“A kiss?” His friends groan and _Hooo_ at his cheek.  “Giz a kiss, darlin’, and you can call the Queen if ya like.”

“Show me your phone first,” you tell him.  He pulls it out, unlocks it, shows you the screen and puts it on the bar.

Happy enough, you grab his head, yank him to you for a dry, smooching kiss.  Then push him off and slap him so hard you stumble sideways.  He bends with it, flopping over like a sapling and grabbing the stool for help before tumbling to the floor.

Noises erupt, witnesses clap, drinks are chinked, and you snatch the phone, backing away, chest still heaving while you tap in Sam’s number.  “Who is this?”

“Sam!”

“Y/N?!”

Hands on knees. “Ugh fuck!  Oh shit!  Is Dean with you?!”  You lean up again, shake out your spare hand, and start pacing a bit, feeling the work revive the old sweat in your clothes.  The phone-owner is climbing onto his stool, looking at you in horror.  None of his friends think you hit him that hard, but you fucking well did.

“Yeah, he’s here. Where are you?”

“Are you sure it’s him?”

There’s a beat of understanding, then “Yeah I’m sure it’s him.  Are you okay?  Where are you?”

You can hear Dean in the background, the car starting up.  “I’m in a bar on- uhFuck, where are we?” The bartender hands you a book of matches and you read out the address.  

“We’re not far away,” he promises.  “Y/N you gotta tell me if you’re hurt.”

“No, no I’m not hurt.”

“She’s not hurt,” the sore customer quips, and you snap a glare on him like he should know better.

“Go ahead as ask me about my _fucking day though!”_ you yell, leaning at the guy.  He flinches away and the others begin to act like something serious might have happened.

“We’re comin’ Y/N.”  He stays on the line and you listen to them swap clipped comments about traffic and directions.  No one’s asking you anything.  No one minds anymore that you’re upset.  They’re watching to see if you’ll calm down, be saved.  Your teetering amble makes its way to the window and you start to look, waiting for two familiar faces, terrified of seeing just one.

The sound of an old car pulls up, you can’t see where, and you wonder if it’s just another vintage.  You hear “We’re here,” before doors slam and noises start to overlap.  Dean runs up to the doorway, hooks a hand to swing inside and sees you.

“Y/N.”  He slows, almost stops, hands open and ready to gather you up.

Without realising you back away, watching and shaking for some sign that it’s him.  

“It’s me,” he nods.  “It’s really me.”

“Uh huh.”

“Hey, I’m a grumpy old fart. I crush my feelings and can’t make anything work.  It’s me, Y/N.”

You stop and look over him again.  Even Sam arriving behind him, phone hovering by his head, isn’t proof enough.  

“Did he tell you my secret?” he asks quietly, almost able to reach you.  He has that drawn look of sleepless worry, all the fears he keeps to himself.

“Which one?”

His eyes soften, just as he’s about to blurt it out, but he can’t quite figure out the words, not at this moment.  Not here.  He swallows and works his lips.  “Sometimes… sometimes I watch Love Actually and practice my English accent.”

“Yeah okay.”  If only you could get your body to unlock.

“Okay?”

He stands still, watches you put the phone on a stool, and lets you move to him in halting once-bitten increments.  You grab the fabric of his clothes and he slides his hand up your reaching arm, wishing you into his embrace while you fist the shirts and whisper into the buttons. “He tricked me.”

“S’okay. You’re with me, okay?”

“Hush, for a second. He-” Dean’s hand is light on your neck, just heat, and over your hair, the other on your shoulder blade, both of you doing what your friendship allows, miles short of what you want. But you run your temple against his collarbone and tilt your face up, breathing him in. He smells like himself - his sweat, your laundry soap, our Dean.

“It me, Y/N.” His whiskers scratch your forehead when he looks down at you, stroking his thumb behind your ear. “You got me.”

He’s bigger than Dan, as though Dan didn’t have the bulk to copy him fully-sized. You look at your hand splayed on the breadth of his chest and he respectfully moves his hands to your shoulders.

It’s enough to remind you of reality and you nod haltingly, stepping back.

“Right, we should-”

His hands fall, and he nods too, thoughtful and serious. Someone down the bar moans “Aw give’er a kiss!” But you talk over the top of it urgently.  “God you know I’m not even sure where I was,” you over-gesture, blinking and wiping your eyes to check they’re dry.

Sam steps forward, hands twitching for a hug of his own but he doesn’t move past Dean. “Could you find your way back?”

“I’ll try,” you promise and get moving before you fall in a heap.

You sit in the front seat, Sam in the back and you point, “Down the end of this street.”  The pedestrians make it slow, and you sit in silence for a while.

“Can you tell us anything, Y/N?  About what he did?”  

You love Sam, not just for his careful tone but for the way he questions.   _Can_ you tell them?  Yes or no.

“He’s in an apartment, renovated industrial space, a few blocks that way.  He looked like Dean.”

“Okay, well, he might look like you now. This was where we were thinking, after a bit more research,” Dean tells you, glancing over while he drives slow.

“The first street sign I read was Bickmore.”

Dean turns towards it, remembering the grid.  Sam leans over the seat to show you the map on his phone.  You recognise the dead-end and tell Dean “Southall St.  The building’s back stairwell exits there.  The frontage is in Greenaway.”

On Southall Street with the trunk open, Dean offers you a silver blade and a silver-loaded gun.  “Preference?”

“The blade,” you mutter, but take the gun since you haven’t a way to conceal the other.  Sam comes to stand behind you and all three of you begin together-

“I’ll kill him-”

“I think I should-”

“I don’t mind-”

“Wait,” blinks Dean.  “He stole _my_ identity.  I’m takin’ it back.”

“No!” Sam is incensed.  “You’re not killing another version of yourself.  It’s way too unhealthy, even for you.”

“I don’t even know why y’all are talking.  I’m killing him,” you say, slamming the trunk closed.

“We could rock-paper-scissors-lizard-Spock for it?” Dean offers.

Sam’s face is unimpressed; yours is deadly.

“It’s me!” he says, hands high, “I swear, it’s me!”

Quietly you lead them up the stairs to the landing, creeping toward the door.  The apartment seems untouched, except a few of the kitchen cabinet doors are ajar.  Maybe he’s preparing to leave, or he’s gone already.  You split up, Sam heading for the room to the left, you and Dean going right, to the corridor you know and he follows you down the hallway.

The room is as you left it, no one under the bed, but there are wardrobes along the back wall.  As you approach to check them, you hear Sam’s noises of surprise, someone hitting the floor out there and you both turn back to help.

The bang of gunshot smacks you in the ears and Dean grabs his right arm, turning away and dropping to the ground.  Sam is struggling to pull himself off the floor and you raise your gun at Dan, stepping past Dean, blinking to right your warped reality.

“I’ll kill him,” he warns, aiming at Dean.  “I’ll kill him and then I’ll be the only one you’ve got left.”

“You’re _not him Dan!”_ you bark, straining your jaw with anger.  “You’re you! Sick, unbalanced, you!”

Dan flinches at your words, green eyes shimmering at the truth, and his aggression falters.  “But you could _heal me!”_ he grits out.  “I want to get better, remember?  I want to stop being a monster!”

“Dan, this?  Shooting someone because I said no?  That’s very monsterish!”

“He was coming at me!”

“Because you attacked his brother!” you yell.  “Drop the gun or I’ll shoot!”

He backs away, unsure of what to do, but only lowers his aim a few inches.  He glances at Sam slowly rising in the kitchen, and from his line of sight Dean seems to be tall again behind you.

“I’m gonna shoot anyway, Dan.”  Pity makes you say odd things, it seems.  “You can’t be trusted.  You’ve already done too much harm.”

He smirks a wobbly, unconvincing smile and scoffs.  “You really got it in you to shoot the man you-?”

“It’s only the way you look Dan, it’s not who you are.”  You realign your sight and steady yourself for the shot.  “I’m s-”

“I _promise_ you, I promise, Y/N, _please_.”  His aim slackens and he starts to flat out plead.  “I know a place, it’s out in the sticks in Montana, it’s gorgeous.  Green, and quiet, and near a nice town.  We could just be regular people.”  Tears start to drop from his eyes, straight down his cheeks.  You’ve never seen Dean desperate like this, and although this is a counterfeit copy, your pity feels genuine, muddled in with every feeling you’ve resisted since he took you.

Dan wipes at his tears with a slack grab of the face, dropping the gun to his hip and talking wetly, saying things any girl wants to hear.  “I know you want a normal life - all the hunters do - and I think if they-” he looks at Sam, not Dean, spit pulling between his lips as he begs.  “If these guys knew you were happy and safe, they’d let you go, if that’s what you wanted.  Or in a town, if you want.  And I can give it to you, I _swear_.  I _swear to God_ , Baby-”

“ _Don’t_ you fucking Baby me,” you growl, snatching your aim true again.  “Where’d you get a cabin from huh?”

He looks at you, sad and sorry and glances at Sam without an answer.  By the time he looks at your shoes you know.  

“Yeah, not a family asset is it?”

Tears run down again and he chews at his lip.

“Dan, I’m gonna give this to you straight, okay?” He nods, sniffs, and you go on.  “I could wait for you to raise your gun again, or wait for you to get angry and threatening again, and it might make me feel better about killing you, but seriously, that is what’s going to happen next.”

He’s still for a while before his face buckles sadly.  

“You’ve killed a lot of people.”

“Yeah, I know,” he heaves pitifully.

“You’re a shapeshifter.”

“I could-”

“This is what I want Dan:  I want to leave here knowing you will definitely never harm anyone else again, not with death, not with identify theft, and not with kidnapping or imprisonment or assault.  So I’m gonna ask you, do you wanna watch me do this or not?”

Dan’s face shiny and shimmering as he comprehends what a terrible history he’s made, what terrible things he’s been willing to do to get what he wants, and his brow clears in resignation.  He closes his eyes and nods.

“I’m sorry Dan.”  

Your aim is true, and Dan’s slack Dean-perfect face tilts up to the ceiling as he tips backwards, dead before he’s hit the floor.  You look at the body, watch the chest to make sure it’s not moving, then quickly turn back to Dean.

“Can I just-”

“Yeah, sure,” he nods and drops his gun on the floor, opening his arms to let you confirm it.  

You walk up to him, eye contact unflinching and press your hand to his chest.  He lets you step in, close enough again for your senses to agree that he’s definitely the Dean Winchester you know.

You allow yourself a few steady breaths to tell yourself _It’s him It’s him It’s him_ , and then you’re on automatic again.  

“Your arm-?”

“S’fine. A graze.”

You nod.  “We need to wipe for prints.”

“Go wait in the car,” Dean says quietly.  “Let us know if anyone’s comin’ that way.”

“They’ll come in the front-”

“Go wait in the car anyway.  Take a break.”

“I’m fine, Dean.  I’m staying.”

You walk around him, into the kitchen to see there’s nothing left of what you handled during last night’s meal.  Sam goes over his trail and as you come out to the living area you see Daniel laying there, looking like one of the more grim futures you’ve ever imagined, and you keep him in sight as you move toward the hallway.  You find a spot where you can see Dean wipe for prints, but stare at the body that shouldn’t move.

Sam goes over to the corpse and you watch him look at his not-brother on the ground.  Dean jogs down to the toilet and does the rest, and then he’s beside you saying “Come on,” with your hand in his.

“Uh guys?” Sam calls. “I don’t know if you want to see this but… the body’s changed. In the face.”

You are curious, so both of you move close enough to see better.

Daniel’s body still has Dean’s hair, like a wig, and the clothes are right, but the shape of his eyebrows has changed, and the nose is different, longer and rounder, his lips thinner than Dean’s.

“Seems he’s reverting to form,” Sam suggests.

Then, right before your eyes, the body lets go, like a degree of structure is lost. The face slips sideways and a white-red tear appears where it breaks away from his ear, all the flesh spreading a few inches in decomposition.

“Jesus!” Sam gasps and you all step back making noises of disgust.

“He’s like a dropped pie.”

“God, don’t bring up pie. _I’ll_ bring up pie,” Dean groans, a hand on his stomach.

“Okay, I think we can leave him though,” Sam flops his arms.  “He doesn’t look like Dean any more and we can’t, like, scoop him out the door.

You squiggle at the thought. “Let’s just go.”

…

If you lean your head on the glass and watch the white line flash by, you can pretend it’s any other day in transit.  The motel is way over in the crappy part of the city, and before you’re five minutes along Dean’s pulled over, muttered “Drive for us?” and gotten out.

You watch them shift places, watch Dean get in beside you, taking it in with a numbness that, were you to reflect on it, explains why Dean is doing this.

“Hey, how you doin?”  He sits there, half turned, ready to move over if you suggest it.

You stare at him, look over him like you’ve never looked at all the parts in one piece.  He has long legs, long arms.  Maybe it’s the daylight.

He twitches his hand open, offering it to you on the seat, so you slide your fingers over the palm and hold on, looking at your hands together.

He rubs his thumb over your bones.  The traffic keeps slowing the car, and people move around your bubble at the intersections.  It feels odd, and out of sorts, and you suddenly want the quiet and privacy of a motel room.

“You gonna give me a hug over here?” His thumb has started to leave a red patch.  “We were worried about you.”

You nod and slide over, push your hip next to his and sort of lean into his side while he hugs you close.  You turn your head, further than is comfortable, to get the warmth from his shoulder against your cheek, and tilt your head back to see him, his neck and stubble.

“Did he hurt you?”

You’ve already had this conversation.  “Not really.”

“Did he touch you at all?” He asks the question lightly, so that he can withhold his aggression.

You rub your fingertips over their thumb where the mortar scratched them tender.  Dean doesn’t know what Dan told you about his _jumble of feelings_. He called it a great start, and you scoff a little because Dan had a point: if it were such a _great start_ , well something would’ve started, right? 

“He kissed me.”

The muscles in Dean’s neck and jaw knuckle around and he pulls and pushes one heated breath through his nose.

“I’m okay,” you tell him.  “I’m okay about that.”

His hand rubs up and down your arm a few times, curling you closer, and you push your cheek against the front of his shoulder, into the dip and the soft flannel.

“Sorry, your smell-” You clear your throat and stop whispering.  “He smelled strange and I think you’re gonna be my snuggie for a while.”

“Hm,” he says, as though he’s smiling and rubs your arm some more, rocking you into him so that you’re side-on.  “Fine with me.”

The car moves and turns corners, and in a moment he’s you rolled onto his neck, darkness wrapping over your eyes when Dean tilts his head for it and keeps you from moving away.

“Here, like this,” he says and hooks a hand around your farthest knee, guiding them both across his.  “Rest a bit.”

You spread your hand across to his shoulder and feel him reach across, around your arm to pull on your ribs.

“Wasn’t sure we were gonna get you back.”  He cuddles you in and seems to like your brow laying flush up the side of his neck.  “You just… disappeared.”

“He tricked me.” That you do whisper, out of shame.  “I should’ve known better.”

“Doesn’t matter, Y/N,” he says, loud enough for Sam to hear.  “And hey, you escaped, on your own.  He’s dead, and I’m here.  We won okay?  We gotcha back.”

You let the warm darkness and familiar comfort relax your systems, let yourself slacken against him.  It’s a conscious effort to not remember how that body felt and have it juxtaposed on these moments.  You force your memories to look at the previous week, in the car, at the kitchen, any location that’s unique to Dean, smiles and laughter and kindness.  Anything Dan did, or said, might muddy your memories of Dean and tamper with your understanding of how he thinks of you, so you start trying to pack the last few days into a time you won’t touch.

“What did he tell you?”

You give yourself a little space so you can open your eyes and look down his body, at your thighs. Your eyelashes brush on his skin.  “Nothing that couldn’t have been a lie.”

Dean doesn’t move, but takes awhile to speak. “That’s not a very clear answer.”

You’re parked in front of the motel room now and Sam’s long gone inside.

“He said what suited him.”  Slowly you push yourself upright and Dean lets his arms slip down to your waist.  “It doesn’t matter.  If there’s something you want me to know, you’ll say it.  And I assume if you haven’t said whatever you think, then you’ve got a good reason.  So I’m just going to forget the whole thing, I hope.”  You smile, then, when he doesn’t look away, you smile again, to ease his concern.  “He didn’t say anything terrible.”

Dean nods, losing himself in thoughts about that for a few moments.  “You want me to help you in?”

You scoff, “No, I can walk,” and get your legs off him so he can get out.  

He waits for you there, closing your door, and walks beside you, watching you put your hands in your pockets.  “You make sure you forgive yourself, alright?”

You stop and blink, too surprised to do more.

“Whatever he did, or said, to trick you- you know he’s been lying all his life, and then, with a face you knew… So you didn’t _get_ tricked; _he_ tricked you.”

You nod, realising what he’s getting at, how he’s trying to absolve you.

“So, I think you’re right to forget it all, if that’s what you want.  You know, just -” He wipes the air. “- write it off.  Clean slate.”

You can nod again, you remember nodding, and if you can think hard enough you’ll even get out a few words.  “Yeah… we’re just… I’ll forget it.”  You smile your most forgiving smile, and take careful even breaths to the bathroom, and all the way through your shower, getting dressed, drying your hair, and keep yourself calm with pragmatic, sensible thoughts until the next conversation helps you role-play Being Okay.

It’s a few more days before Dean can get a proper laugh out of you, but you seem to be back to your usual self within the week.


	3. Chapter 3

It was half him and half the timing. He delivered it just as you took a gulp, and then you’re trying to swallow and giggle and not choke, beer-spit lips and happy cheeks, shiny and high.  You slowly shook your head as you bounced, waving him away.

Dean smacked his knee and started laughing into the back of his hand, watching you and letting relief fuel his smile because you’re finally relaxed enough to seem normal.

“Oooh my god,” you sighed, shaking the wet off your fingers.  “Wasn’t even that funny.”

“It was hilarious.” Dean leaned away and licked his lips into a smile of affection, let the bottle hang from his fingers while he watched you settle back in your chair.  “As always.”

You were coy, keeping your gaze and your smile to yourself.  And he couldn’t reach out for your hand, or hug you, or any of that, so he kicked the side of your boot and you rolled your eyes.

…

A week after, after enough mundane normality had gone by, you were in the kitchen, shuffling things between breakfast makings and the fridge, weaving around Dean as Sam sat at the table and you all chatted about what was next.  You were almost energised by the security of the moment, almost back to your best, if you could hold it.

You’d mentioned something to Sam, some micro-fact that might make a difference, and pointed at him as you walked to the fridge to return the milk.

Sam nodded into the concession. “Yeah, okay, if you wanna be all accurate and everything.” You smirked at him, and noticed that someone needed to do a grocery run before you closed the fridge door.

Dean wrapped his arm around your waist, suddenly warm and deep behind you, and allowed himself a lapse in his restraint.  “That’s our girl,” he said, half aware he’s overshot it already.  “Makin’ Sam feel simple.”  He kissed you behind your ear, making your head nod a little and you caught yourself against the fridge. With a quick squeeze he went back to his toast.

It was everything.

You pressed your hands against the cold door and curled your fingers until your nails slipped over the hard, silvery surface.

Cool and hard.  And smooth.  

_Home, home, home…_

You turned back to your plate and picked up a piece of toast, looking through Sam as he explained the next thing, something, and you ate your flavourless food.  There wasn’t enough blood in your tongue to deliver the feeling of taste.

Dean was already sitting, but he saw you weren’t right and couldn’t get out of his seat fast enough before you’d said “I’m just going to eat in my room.”

You walked out of the kitchen and even though you heard Dean call “You okay?” you kept walking.  You put your breakfast on your desk and put on your shoes and kept walking.  You went for a long walk and came back when you felt better.

But Dean, back in the kitchen, had stood, listening to you get further away, then put his hands on the table while he realised what had happened.

He thought you had been repulsed, that the memory of that shapeshifter now had you not just tolerating Dean’s presence, but disgusted by the contact, and he didn’t know if he was angry or miserable or scared.  Worse still, there was nothing left to kill that could fix this.

It took you another week to understand that wanting Dean’s arms around you is not the same as wanting Dan or what he offered.  But by then Dean had decided, much to Sam’s distress, that he would keep his distance and be as unoffensive as possible, even if it meant loosening the group during hunts.

Sam was quite sure that distance was the last thing you needed.

…

_He knows.  He fucking knows.  He has to know Dan said something.  And he’s acting like it never was.  It’s like he’s trying to undo every hint._

The words feel loud in your head, loud enough to drown out Dean’s instructions.

“That sound good to you? Y/N?”

“Yeah, s’fine.”  You nod, pretending you didn’t hear the tension in his voice.  You manage to answer without looking at him, again.  It’s become quite the skill.

“Well, if you got a better idea we’d love to hear it.”  His tone is precisely between _Come on then_ and _What the hell is wrong with you?_

“I don’t,” you say plainly, unoffended.  “Let’s go.”

Everyone gets some silver in their hands and gets out of the car.  Dean stalks off to the rear of the building, confounded and surly, and Sam takes a moment to pull on your arm.  “Hey, are you okay?”

“Yeah.”  Sam you can look at, so you do, but you’re barely better than neutral with your expression.  “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“Yeah, well, you’re _not_ , but are you well enough for this,” he peers at you.  “A month may not be long enough for another shifter job. You can say no, Y/N - there’s only one of them.”

“Doesn’t matter.”  Your tone, your countenance, remains unchanged and indifferent. “There’s no-one else around.  It’s gotta be us.  So I gotta be okay.”

Sam huffs in frustration, watching you walk away.

Inside, you and Sam split up quite early.  The house is large, dark and very quiet.  You think you hear Dean before you find anyone, and then it’s because they find you first.

…

Upstairs, Dean comes across you on the other side of a moonlit room, about to check an en suite.  He watches you nod at him and dodge in, checking the corners, and returning as you tuck your gun into the back of your jeans.

“I’m don’t think there’s anyone here.  Sam found anything?”

“I haven’t heard,” he says and straightens, relaxing his aim.  The whole place is pretty much vacant.  A few sets of drawers remain, side tables, but the large pieces of furniture have been moved out.  There’s nowhere to really hide.  Then he hears the thing, the one thing, that’s been on your mind for 32 days.

“He said you love me.  Loved me.”

Dean looks at your face, half lit by a full moon.  So this is what’s been eating at you.  Although he knew that already, if he’s honest.  It’s just that it went to shit, right through his fingers, and he’s not even sure when.

“Were you going to do anything about that?” you ask.

Dean blinks at you, shifting his weight in surprised.  He’s always been ready to admit he loves you - Of course! Why wouldn’t he! Sam does too! - but it isn’t coming as smoothly as he expected.

“I- Did you-” Dean reorganises his thoughts, but can’t get the job done in time.

“I mean, shifters are so fuckin’ broken,” you say, your footfalls loud the hardwood floor as you step towards him, “any sort of love probably feels like unicorns and rainbows to them anyway.  He mighta mixed it up.”

Dean sees the bitterness in your shrug.  “No, I-” He clears his throat and figures, timing be damned, he can’t lie to you face to face.  “He wasn’t wrong about that.”

“Why didn’t you say anything?”

“I wasn’t sure how you felt,” he confesses, and lets the truth slip free.  “Wasn’t brave enough.”

The stare he gets is galvanising, some sort of excitement or shock at his confession.

“I mean, I can lose a friend,” he adds, excusing, “but… anythin’ more, that’s- that would be-”

“Well this?”   _Inside_.

He sees the gesture, the clawing nails.  

“In here? It’s love.  For you.”  

He holds his ground as your echoing boots get closer.  

“It’s Day one, tears on the pillow, forgives you every day, until the end, _love_. This heart loves you.”

Dean tilts a little, away from the scalding bitterness, and swallows down the punishment and regret.  He’s not going to stop you leaving, if that’s what you want.  Couldn’t get his arms to move again, anyway, since they’re still trained to hold himself back.

When you’re at the doorway, he turns, wishing the words would work - he’s sure they won’t but he tries them anyway.  “I do love you, Y/N.  Always have.”

He looks into your eyes and it’s been so long since that’s happened it’s almost unfamiliar.  And the guilt of that, his neglect, makes his heart curl in on itself.  Literally a dozen moments a day, when he would refuel on your gaze and tap himself home, they’ve been lost in these weeks of growing distance.  What’s he taken from you along the way? He’s done it all wrong.

The savage smile on your face is exactly what he deserves, he thinks, and he watches your lips buckle as you speak.  “It’s not enough, Dean.  Not enough to-”

_BANG!_

“Oh!” Dean drops, grunts, turning away from the flash of red. “Oh-fuck! No!”  A watery ache wrenches his throat as his mind catches what he saw, the side of your head exploding, and he looks properly, seeing you before him, fallen on the floor, shot and dead.

He snatches his aim on the figure in the doorway.

“Dean, it’s me!” You’re there, gun loose in your surrendered hands.  “It’s me! Silver gun! Me!”

He scrambles up, up on one knee and looks over at the body that has nothing tucked into the back of its jeans.

Sam appears in the doorway and after a few seconds of judgement he feels confident all the right people are still alive, lowering his aim too.

“Dean? You okay?” you check. “What did she say?”

Dean looks at Sam, not pleading, but enough for Sam to mutter “I’ll uh, give you two a moment.”

Dean pushes himself to standing and shakes his head, looking at his shoes to hide the frown he can’t control.  “Nah, nothin’.”  He sniffs.  “I just thought it was you, is all.”

You stand there and let your eyes adjust to the room, where the moonlight is brightest, and wait for him.

You tuck your gun away and step passed her to stand in front of Dean and look at him properly.  He sniffs again and waits for you.

You’ve both taken so many little fractures, silence strained by words that ought to have been said, and memories gone rotten with assumptions.  

There’s been no clean slate, no forgetting at all.  You’ve barely thought of anything else, and now you’ve nearly lost all your perspective on the situation…  You were meant to forget it, and go back to before.  You should never have tried.

You shuffle closer, deciding any fix, _anything_ , has to be better than nothing. “Did she tell you my secret?” you ask.

Dean looks at you, curious and hopeful, then puts it together, and when you take his hand he snatches his grasp and squeezes so hard…  “No, she told me mine.”

He steps up and hugs you, big arms around your shoulders, yours cinched tight around his waist, and crushes you up against him, up into his embrace with a breath takes in everything in his arms, and lets out everything he could’ve lost.

He pushes his head against yours, nuzzles into it and grits out “Missed you.”

You reply with a squeeze, burying your face in his neck with a “Me too.”

“I’m sorry,” he says. “I said- ah, I wish I’d known-”

“I heard.”  You don’t move away, just lean back so you can look up at him.  “Why do you think I shot her in the head?”

Dean smiles so fast, and big crinkling grin that steals the moonlight away.

“Were you planning on saying it again?”

“I should’ve said it that third day-”

“What third day?”

“After we got you back,” he says, rubbing a palm up and down your back.  “It was three days before you laughed again and I should’ve said it then.  I was scared of reminding you of him. I kept trying to guess what you wanted, and I should’ve asked.”

“I wanted you.”

Dean’s nodding, murmuring “I know, I’m sorry,” nods himself right down to your lips.

He’s warming the air around you, background hints of sweat and shirts that still smell of the last slap of aftershave, a bit of beer somewhere behind the bunker’s laundry soap, maybe a trace of burger and hurried mint before you left - _eau de hero._  Your Dean.  You suck it in and hold your breath till it saturates your blood.

There’s nothing right or wrong about it.  Nothing makes you think about how it’s him, or if it’s like what he would do.  It’s full, to the brim, of sorry and want, and meanings that can hardly be delivered any other way than in a kiss that gives and gives.  He isn’t kissing you to make you do anything; he’s just showing you how he feels.

“I love you.”  The words fall out of your mouth and instantly you feel like you’ve taken a step toward home, as though you’d been creeping away all this time.  

It makes him hesitate and try to see you again, but you lean for more, talking into his mouth.  “You’re nothing like him.  He was never like you.  Because I loved you, and I knew you.”  You take a deep breath and take his jacket in both fists, watching his lips  while you talk.  “It was just… you were fine and happy, and then I freaked out and you pulled back.  And I figured you must’ve known he said you had feelings for me, and the longer you didn’t say anything, the more hurt I got-”

“I know, I know.” Dean doesn’t want to hear any more about how he’s fumbled things.  He kisses your forehead and tucks you into his arms.  “I just thought you wouldn’t want to be with someone who looked like him-”

You squint in confusion, looking at him incredulously.

“I know! I know, and I kept not fixing it.  I’m a moron.”  Dean leans down, on his way to kissing you, but pauses before he does.  “I love you too.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.  Enough to make big fucking mistakes because I can’t see straight.”

“He said he picked you because he saw the way I look at you.”  You don’t want to talk about Dan, but it’s something that might help Dean feel better.

And it does, it seems, with a humble moment of surprise.  “That’d be why I missed you so much,” he says.  “I missed that look.”

You slide your palm over his cheek and guide him to you, sighing into a kiss that’s full, open, and tastes like nothing because he’s exactly who you should be kissing.  His tongue is smooth against yours, intimate and lovely, and you start to think of how you can have this, what you’ve always wanted, from here on.

Dean feels you smiling around his lips and murmurs “What?”

“Take me away Dean,” you sigh.  “Put me in a hipster cabin and give me matching tea towels.”

“Oh my god, the melodrama,” he groans.

“Make cuckoo clocks while I organise book groups.”

Dean starts to chuckle in your arms, his smile pressed against your lips while you talk and he can’t kiss anymore.  It’s everything.

“And take you from your god-given talent?  Not a chance.”  He wraps his arms around you, slips them up your waist so tightly your heels leave the ground, and he cups the back of your head before him.  “You don’t want a quiet life, do you?”

“I want you.  Just keep me alive so I can have this - in-between killing monsters - and I’ll do the same for you.”

“Deal.”


End file.
